


When He Sees Me

by itsalwaysyou_jw



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, First Meetings, Fluff, Gay Bar, Humor, Inspired by Music, M/M, One Shot, POV John Watson, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 10:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16679530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw/pseuds/itsalwaysyou_jw
Summary: John Watson's attempt to meet men at a popular club has failed spectacularly. He is positive that leaving the raucous club will mean the end of his evening, but fate has other plans in mind.A handsome stranger outside the club ensures that John's night is far from over; it is just beginning. John can't be sure if he is on a date with the intriguing man across from him. He certainly hopes he is.





	When He Sees Me

**Author's Note:**

> This series is a collection of one-shots where I press "shuffle" on Inevitably-Johnlocked's famous playlist and write a fic based on the first song that pops up.
> 
> Inspired by: "When He Sees Me" written by Sara Bareilles for the musical Waitress

There was a possibility that John's decision to come to this specific bar was a mistake. The music was loud, the air was viscous with breath, and the people were boisterous.

His goal hadn’t been extraordinarily absurd. He’d simply figured he’d go out for the night, have some fun, maybe get the number of a man or two. The thought of such an evening had run through his head nearly every day for a year, yet he perpetually invented reasons to stay home.

What made him come out tonight?

Nothing more than a feeling.

So he’d punched “gay bar” into his phone and debated with himself whether he wanted the closest one, the one with the highest reviews, or the cheapest one. The choice was easy, really, after reading the reviews for Snaps, which was apparently “fun”, “energetic”, and “full of cute men.”

Getting dressed was a chore, of course. John was not without a sense of fashion, but nothing he owned seemed to suit the occasion. He’d put on several tried-and-true outfits before deciding on a risque choice he was previously positive he would never wear.

Yet here he was: in a gay bar, skin vibrating with the bass of the music, and wearing far too much leather. His two measly drinks were warm in his stomach but not powerful enough to elevate his eagerness to converse with these young, energetic strangers. There was nothing wrong with the crowd. It just didn't feel like he'd imagined.

He leaned against the bar to observe the hoards of gyrating bodies and he felt empty.

What was he doing? This wasn’t him. He wished it was. He longed for the sweet embrace of his sexuality, longed for a corner of the community he could call home. In truth, he was unsure how to come to terms with his bisexuality without a portion of identity to cling to.

His defeat was heavy in his bones when he finished his drink in one fluid swig and made his way through the dense collection of bodies toward the door. His fingers fiddled with the club's bracelet around his wrist as he weighed the possibility of simply removing it now to cut away any impulse to return to this place once he exited the door.

The frigid night air was a bolt through him. The instant contrast of his sweaty, leather-clad legs against the winter night was peculiar and not altogether unwelcome. There seemed more than a door between him and the club now. Music was dead upon this street, yet the beat seemed to be riding through the wind around him. The ghost of the song was still in his blood.

It was not deserted outside, though it was eerily calm to his ringing ears. There appeared to only be pairs of people out here, most of them embracing one another. His fingers itched to remove the wristband that was suffocating him.

Removing it would seal his fate for the evening. He would have to go home and give up. Getting rid of it seemed to be admitting failure, which took a strength he didn’t know if he possessed.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The voice came from his right and he nearly tripped over himself in his motion to rotate and find the source of the sound.

The air between them turned into solid ice. Surely that must be why John was rendered completely breathless at the sight before him.

He was the only man without a partner in this light gathering of people outside the bar. He was leaning against the wall like he had not a care in the world, but his strikingly bright eyes were alight with mischief. Locks of perfectly curled, black hair framed a face consisting of angles and panes that gave him the distinct look of a prince out of his time.

Yes, the air was gone from around them. John wasn’t struck immobile from this man, it was merely a problem brought on by external forces.

“I- sorry?” stuttered John, wholly unsure of what else to say.

“Your wristband,” the man drawled as though it was perfectly clear what he was on about. “To get you back in. You’re wanting to remove it to prevent tempting yourself going back in. But if you take it off, you will still be tempted to return and, additionally, you will suffer guilt for removing the option. Whereas if you keep it on, you can do whatever you please with no guilt.”

John’s mouth was inexplicably dry. “How did you know that I-”

“I didn’t know,” he said, eyes narrowing in irritation. “I saw.”

John was definitely going to need a chair. Or possibly a drink of water. Or perhaps he simply needed to be nearer this man. They were near enough to hear one another but three meters was too far for the thoughts racing through John’s mind.

“Who are you, then?” asked John in what he hoped was a casual manner.

“Sherlock,” he answered in record time and showing no interest in John’s name.

“Sherlock,” John repeated slowly, experimenting with how it felt in his mouth. It was a peculiar name, but it fell from his mouth like it was second nature. It was as though years of learning complex medical terms was nothing more than a preparation for being able to appreciate the beautiful sound of his name.

“ _Whoa there, soldier_ ,” whispered a voice in the back of his mind. “ _Calm down_.”

But he didn’t want to.

“What are you doing out here, then?” he asked.

Sherlock shrugged, the corners of his lips falling minutely as he formulated an answer.

"I don't see myself blending in there.”

“Meaning?” prompted John politely.

Their eyes connected and his stomach reacted with powerful force. “Meaning,” he responded in a measured tone, “I'm not quite communicative enough to enjoy it.”

“Ah,” whispered John, understanding flooding him. Scared. He was scared. “You know, alcohol can help with that sort of thing.”

A trace of a smile re-appeared on the devilishly handsome man, his eyes gleaming with understanding. “Are you asking me to join you for a drink?”

John had just begun sputtering in contradiction when Sherlock’s hand flew up to halt his words. “I will. But not here and don’t go getting the wrong idea.”

The wrong idea? What was the right idea? But he was strolling away before John could even begin to wonder what was happening.

“Come along,” shouted the man without turning around.

John didn’t need to think twice. Throwing all caution to the wind, he flew down the street to fall into step beside the man. The winter air was sharp in his lungs but he paid it no mind. Beside him walked a sexy, mysterious, and clever man. He was right out of John’s dreams.

They walked in electric silence for a few blocks until the man silently slid into an unmarked door. John followed without question.

It was a dingy bar, the air thick with poor ventilation. Each table bore signs of abuse. Two tables were missing rather large chunks of wood, one table was criminally crooked and John was convinced drinks would simply slide off it, while another table-a booth table- was so littered with dried, sticky rings, he would have been surprised if the table had been cleaned even once in its long life.

There were only three other people in there and not one of them looked up at the entrance of the man in leather trousers who clearly didn’t belong here. The bartender kept his eyes glued to the glass he was cleaning while the only other two patrons sat with their heads lolling lazily, their eyes both glossy as they looked upon nothing before them.

“What the-” he whispered, his words trailing off from sheer dubiety.

Sherlock moved through the wreckage of tables before settling on one table in the furthest corner. His long body moved into the booth with his back facing John. It was more than likely that this was a mistake, but the thought of those beautiful eyes facing the wall opposite him sent jolts through his body and he was helpless to resist the pull.

John walked slowly toward the table, trying to ignore the way his feet stuck to the floor as they moved one in front of the other. He slid himself into the seat opposing Sherlock and was relieved to find that the seat and table beneath him were perfectly clean. Distantly, he wondered if the cleanliness of this booth was specifically for Sherlock- or perhaps because of him.

“What would you like?” asked Sherlock softly.

“Er-” His eyes darted to the bar where the bartender stood cleaning the counter with the same rag he had used to clean the glasses.

Sherlock must have read his mind because no sooner could he speak when Sherlock pulled out two glasses from inside his jacket and gave him a challenging look.

What the hell? Does he just walk around with glasses in his coat?

“Beer,” he said hoarsely. Who _was_ this man?

Sherlock returned in almost no time at all with both glasses close to the brim with a deliciously amber liquid.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

“I’m John, by the way,” he said to the table. “John Watson. In case you were… wondering.”

A long “hmm” escaped from Sherlock as his eyes scanned John for something he couldn’t guess. “Doctor John Watson,” he said softly.

The liquid that had been working its way down John’s throat suddenly had a new destination. Coughing, he stared at the man in complete bewilderment.

“How the fu-”

“I didn’t _know_ ,” he said, his face a mask of pure irritation. John was stunned into silence by the sheer fact that he had also known he what he was about to ask. “I _saw_. It’s what I do, John. I see things, I make sense of the physical evidence in front of me and make my deductions based on what I see. I don’t _know_ anything. I deduce my facts.”

God help him, his trousers were snug. It must be cold of the room impacting the material.

At a total loss of words, John busied himself with drinking the beer before him. This man. This madman-

“Alright,” said John with a confidence he had to fake. “What did you mean when you said you’d join me for a drink but I shouldn’t ‘get the wrong idea’?”

Sherlock prefaced his response with a drink from his own glass. “I meant that I didn’t want you to think this is a date.”

“Oh.” Was it normal for one’s stomach to settle into their pelvis?

“Not that there’s anything wrong with you,” Sherlock said in a frenzied rush of words. His eyes were wide with fear of his own miscommunication. “I just don’t do it. The whole… ‘dating’ thing.”

“Ah.” Yes, his stomach definitely had a new home now. “And why’s that?”

His beer was empty now. Why, then, were his nerves still bouncing around within him as though they were playing an endless game of Pong?

Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed in his direction and his silence grew uncomfortable as he seemed to be deciding whether or not to answer that. When John was convinced they were doomed to spend the rest of the evening in silence, Sherlock swept his drink into his hand and drank the remaining liquid- more than half the glass- with an impressive chug.

“Fancy a second round?” he asked immediately upon swallowing, and John could only nod.

He watched the man swagger away in disappointment. He wasn’t getting an answer, then.

The new drink was placed before him so abruptly, the liquid within the glass sloshed out onto the table.

“I stick with _real_ things, John.” He said the words so quickly, John’s focus nearly didn’t return to Sherlock in time to catch them. Apparently he was getting his answer, then. Sherlock returned to his seat, but he was no longer sitting casually, exuding a sense of self-importance. Rather, he sat back against the seat, his arms folded defensively across his chest. “Fact. Math. Science. Those things involve zero guesswork. They are facts, indisputable. But _people_? _Dating_? _Love_? Those are nothing more than guessing games. And… I never guess.”

He finalized the explanation with the smallest of sips from his glass and John found himself suppressing a smile and an eye roll all at once. His insides were warm and light with alcohol and his extremities were losing feeling. Indeed, he had to remind himself that he’d also had two drinks at the last bar to avoid feeling like a light-weight. He’d only had one beer here.

Better make it two.

He started in on the drink before him as his mind churned for an appropriate response. If they weren’t on a date, then he had nothing to fear for honesty. Though, if he was too honest, perhaps he would ruin any potential shot he could have. God, he hoped he had a shot. Then again, he supposedly had no shot at all.

His thoughts continued in this circle until he was dizzy with them.

“Don’t you think you’re being just the slightest bit defensive?”

The words were borne from of a complete lack of anything else to say. They were out of his mouth with no regard to whether or not John wanted them out.

Sherlock looked affronted and so comically insulted, John fought to turn a bark of laughter into a giggle.

“I am not being defensive!” said Sherlock with such drama that was disproportionate to the situation.

“I think you are,” poked John, raising his eyebrows accusingly over the glass in his hand.

A rather adorable “humph” escaped Sherlock in return, his arms crossing into a tighter manner. “Look, it’s not about being _defensive_. It’s just good logic to remove oneself from the chemical defect of love.”

“So you’re being cautious, then.”

“No- I’m not- _No_!” Sherlock was most definitely flustered now, and the look was so incredibly endearing that John felt his heart ache for the sight.

“Out with it,” John continued relentlessly, bu still the smile on his face was light and encouraging. “What are you scared of?”

“I’m not-” he started weakly, but his words fell flat between them as he searched for something in John’s eyes. He couldn’t be sure what he was looking for, but John was helpless to look away from him. Finally, a soft sigh escaped through lips thin with pressure and his arms fell from his chest to rest on the table.

“What if,” Sherlock said so softly, John had to lean forward in his seat to hear it, “he doesn’t like me?”

“Who?” John asked, perplexed.

“Not anyone specific,” he brushed aside the question with an irritated wave of his hand. “Just… _him_. A man that I develop affection for. What if when he sees me, he’s only disappointed? What if he runs away and I can’t stop it?”

John examined the beautiful man before him in complete bafflement. “Why would they _run_ away?”

Sherlock straightened up and looked at John as though the words were a challenge. His pupils were wide and moving too quickly to track, words spilling out of him with extraordinary speed.

“Doctor John Watson. You served time in Afghanistan- could have been Iraq, but we’re playing with the balance of probability here. Specifically, you were an army doctor- an army surgeon. You spent several years serving before being medically discharged for a gunshot wound to your shoulder. During your time in the military, you had an experience- possibly a feeling but more likely physical- with another man that helped you come to terms with your sexuality. You’ve long repressed that side of you though, which is how you find yourself a man in his late thirties trying to find out how he fits into his sexuality. You live alone, haven’t shaved in two days, haven’t slept well in months, and you pretend to want a peaceful life but yearn for action.”

Silence. Months and years of silence. Sherlock’s eyes left John, falling upon his own hands on the table.

Yes, John’s leather trousers positively must have shrunk. They were suddenly uncomfortably tight.

“That,” said John slowly, the words feeling coarse against his dry throat, “was utterly spectacular.”

Sherlock’s head shot up, his eyes wide and his mouth dangling in a cartoonish “O”

“W-what?”

John’s heart was threatening to flip its way out of his body. “That was astonishing. Bloody impossible. You can’t have known all that and yet… You did. Holy shit. Who- How did you do that?”

Am embarrassed smile fought for territory on the man’s face. He was deliriously adorable with the effort of looking humble. “You think so?”

He honest-to-God scoffed from the ludicrousy of the question. “Of course! That was… brilliant.”

“That’s not what people normally say,” he admitted, still small in his seat.

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John could not have possibly suppressed the bark of laughter that escaped and surprised even the bartender. Sherlock smiled, his demeanour relaxing. “Well, some say that. Others just… walk away.”

Understanding crashed over him with burning clarity. “Oh.” His brilliance could not be beheld by most people. Most people were affronted by this talent. “I think it’s fucking brilliant. Cheers.”

He held his glass aloft and relished in the eagerness shown by the man to join in. Together they finished their second drinks, studying one another with glee. It was far too long before John realized he was simply staring at the man.

Then again, the man was staring right back.

“So you’re scared they can’t handle you,” said John a bit too loudly. “What else?”

“Right,” he said quickly, a flush colouring his perfect cheeks. “Well, what if I date someone- fall in love- and they’re really just a criminal mastermind who has formulated that plan to get me to trust them?”

Truly, John was unsure whether or not he should laugh. The look on the man’s face was so serious, he decided to say, “That… would...  _never_ happen, Sherlock.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“No. No, I mean it. I mean that would _never, ever_ happen. That’s insane.”

Sherlock smirked like he knew something John didn’t. “I’m a detective. It could happen.”

“A detective!” John shouted, his palm finding his forehead in a dramatic show of stupidity. “Of _course_ you’re a detective. Bloody hell, I reckon you’re the best there is?”

“The very best. I’m amazing. Lots of enemies.”

God, that was hot. Why was that hot? John didn’t know, but he didn’t care. That was remarkably hot.

“What else?” he croaked because his voice was uselessly out of his control. He desperately needed the subject to change. Immediately. “What else are you scared of?”

A lazy shrug. “That’s it, I suppose.” The words were thin and rang false in John’s ears.

“You’re lying.”

“Am not!” He contradicted childishly. John allowed his eyes to remain sceptical attached to the man until a breath released the resistance Sherlock had been clinging to. “Fine. I’m scared- in fact, I’m most scared- that he _won’t_ run.”

John’s eyebrows were stitched so closely, they were a hair away from touching. “What are you on about?”

“He could be mean, he could run away, or he could be untrustworthy. That would be unfortunate. But what if he is kind? What if he makes me laugh and makes me come out of the shell I’ve carefully orchestrated? I wouldn’t even know what to do with that.”

John’s stomach had a new home again. It now settled into his throat, painfully dry for want of the man before him.

“What if he opens a door that I can’t close?” continued Sherlock, his eyes penetrating deep within John soul. “What if when he sees me- really sees me- he wants to again?”

But he was standing and gathering a glass into each of his hands before John could answer. “Refill?” he murmured, walking away before John could offer an answer to his question or a response to his confession.

John was at war with himself regarding how high to get his hopes up with this man. He’d said point-blank it wasn’t a date. But it felt like a date. He said he didn’t want to open up with anyone. But it felt like he was opening up.

When he returned, John took an immediate long drink from the fresh glass of beer. He knew exactly the question to ask.

“If you aren’t interested in dating, why were you hanging out alone outside a gay bar?”

Sherlock went pale instantly, his eyes falling to the table. “Not important. Tell me more about yourself.”

“No.”

The two stared at each other for an impossible eternity. John, challenging the truth and Sherlock determining whether or not to tell the truth.

“You said you’re the best,” said John with quiet intensity. “You said you’re amazing.”

“I am.”

“So amaze me.” The words sunk in visibly. Sherlock softened and his muscles relaxed. “Be honest.”

A large breath prefaced his words. “I wasn’t standing outside. I’d gone in.” He lifted up his jacket sleeve to expose a neon bracelet that mirrored John’s. “But I felt totally out of place. Everyone was enjoying themselves and I… wasn’t. I didn’t want to go, but I thought maybe… I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just felt compelled to go. A moment of weakness, I suppose.”

“Then why were you standing outside?”

He went, if possible, even more pale but continued without hesitation. “I decided to leave.”

“But you didn’t,” contradicted John. “You didn’t leave. You were just… standing there.”

Sherlock groaned and slammed his fist on the table in a show of frustration that scared John into removing his hands from their shared table. “I saw you. You looked miserable and awkward and I could tell you were going to leave soon but I wanted to talk to you. I knew you were debating it and I knew you would leave. I knew you’d never see me or hear me in that mess of a club. So I just... waited outside.”

John was smiling large enough to see every tooth in his mouth. “I have a deduction,” he proclaimed.

“Oh?” asked Sherlock, and his pale face showed a curious expression with one arched eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“This,” John said confidently, his finger gesturing between the two of them, “is a date.”

Sherlock scoffed unconvincingly at the words, his hands waving away the words as they were hurled toward him. “What did I tell you about getting the wrong idea?”

“What would you say,” said John tentatively, his feet traversing into waters of unknown depth, “if I told you that _I_ see you. And what I see is intoxicating. And that I want to see more.”

Sherlock's cheeks filled with a colour he couldn’t blame on the alcohol. His eyes were wide with what John thought was intrigue but could have been terror. The distance between John and the response forming on the lips of the man was too much to handle. His heart leapt around helplessly waiting for the man to speak.

“I’d say that you have, in fact, gotten the wrong idea.” He said it with an unconvincing bite, his eyes wide as they searched John’s for sincerity.

“You don’t mean that,” John said with a confidence he was starting to lose.

There were three other people with them in that room alone, yet at that moment they were the only two in the world. That unbreakable silence that wrapped its cruel legs around them both until a sigh graciously escaped from between the perfect lips before him.

“No, I don’t,” Sherlock admitted reluctantly. John beamed at the man, his soul elated. Sherlock gave a begrudging smile, his eyes scanning John under hooded eyes. “I’d say your deduction is spot-on.”

It was a testament to John’s self-control that he did not leap up with joy. Rather, he remained seated, wide smile betraying him, and extended a hand across the table in that dingy, filthy bar. Sherlock slid his long, cold fingers into John’s with the caution of a deer taking its first steps.

The touch was innocuous, benevolent, untroubled, and completely Earth-shattering. Their collective heat fused them together, their connection cemented with this one, innocent link. With their drinks forgotten, the world around them halted, and reality melted away, they sat utterly transfixed by one another.

From the first moment, John Watson had known this man was going to be something special. After that perfect evening, their lovely conversation, and this one deceptively significant touch, John knew his life had casually changed course permanently. He knew with crystal clear certainty that this was the first date of many.

**Author's Note:**

> They both just "HAD A FEELING" that they should go out. It's fate, y'all.
> 
> Updates for this series will arrive fresh to your email every Monday if you wish to subscribe! You may do so by clicking where it says "Part 3 of The Johnlock Playlist" and pressing "Subscribe" on the top of _that_ page. Pressing the "Subscribe" button on _this_ page will not bring you news of new additions, unfortunately.
> 
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> OR on Spotify:  
> I-J's Johnlock Playlist created by Beatriz Benezes Pinto
> 
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> 
> Thank you for reading!


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